


Letting Go

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Non-Stop Gifts/AUs [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Attempted Murder, M/M, Obsession, Pain Kink, Possessive Behavior, Self Defence, Violence, not safe or sane, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6082101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lafayette turns another page. He pauses. Makes a noise in the back of his throat. Interested. “Have you ever heard of ‘feral children,’” Lafayette asks. John contemplates his answer. He contemplates too long. “Children who are left alone, devoid of human contact for so long they act as animals.”</p><p>There’s a scratching of a pen. Lafayette taking notes. Something more interesting than the definition. “This one girl, in your United States,” he always blames his United States when he’s displeased with something. Like John had a choice. “She was kept in a room by herself for thirteen years. Almost since birth.” John wonders if she had a window.</p><p>_______________________________</p><p>Part of the Non Stop Universe. </p><p>Anon Prompt: Jefferson takes revenge on John and Lafayette for what they did to him in Non Stop. He gets more then he bargains for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle (twoandahalfslytherins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandahalfslytherins/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Non-Stop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626945) by [writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle (twoandahalfslytherins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandahalfslytherins/pseuds/writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle). 



> This was based off of an anon prompt to writelikeitsgoingoutofstyle. If you have not read their story "Non Stop" you WILL NOT understand this. 
> 
> A brief summary of events: 
> 
> Alex was a drug addict and Jefferson was his dealer. He began to get off drugs, with the help of Aaron Burr. Jealous, Jefferson convinced Alex to go back with him to his house. He brutilized Alex, and was only rescued when Aaron called Lafayette and Laurens to help him. 
> 
> Lafayette and Laurens have a very physical, very consensual, but very violent relationship with one another. They fight constantly and they get off on dominance and pain. John tortures Jefferson (eventually making him snort his own cocaine) before leaving him to be found by the police all under Lafayette's orders. 
> 
> Alex is healing, and L/L are continuing their relationship happily. 
> 
> I STRONGLY RECOMMEND reading Non Stop before this fic.

_Someone else would have asked._

John comes home. Knuckles sore and tender. Split and bleeding. There’s blood on his collar too. But it's his. And it’s not enough. John’s classes ended four hours ago. He'd had one missed call, and the message on his phone still echos between his ears even now. After...he’d needed something to cancel it out while Lafayette was off in English. Or Math. Or whatever the fuck he was taking.

But it's been hours. The edge hasn't been taken off. And Lafayette's home. John walks through the door. Blood staining his shirt. Hands curled into fists. His hair’s leaking out of his ponytail. His face is flushed red. He’s shaking. A little. Limbs trembling as he stalks room to room. Lafayette must hear him.

He comes downstairs, rounds the bend, and John’s on him in a moment. Throwing a punch. Aiming high and fast. Just like their first night. It’s a flirtation on its own. A kiss from his hand. A greeting. A plea. _Please._

Lafayette blocks it out of the way. Spins him like the four _assholes_ earlier didn’t have any hope of spinning him. Sends John to his knees. Pain flares around his shoulder. It’s perfect. But it’s not enough.

He ducks and dodges, kicks backwards into Lafayette’s legs. Lafayette huffs a laugh. Whispers something tantalizing in French. And John’s been getting better. He has. But he can’t focus on words right now. Can’t muddle through the translation. Can’t parse the rhyme or matter. He wants blood. He wants to hurt something. He wants to _feel_.

He feels it when Lafayette kicks him in the chest. Feels it when he rolls across the ground. His elbow connecting solidly with a chair’s leg. It sends nerves firing up and down his arm. Turning it limp and numb. Funny bone. Good hit. _I need more._ He stands up.

The fight’s different than the last ten thousand fights they’d enjoyed. But not really, in retrospect. There’s just as much violence. Just as much desperation. The itching feeling under John’s skin won’t stop. He rushes forward. Again and again. High and low. Teeth gnashing. Attempting to get purchase. He does - eventually. Manages to bite down on Lafayette’s arm when he brings it around in an attempt to choke him. Lafayette grins savagely. John can feel the spread of the lips against his throat. And then - _bliss_.

Teeth in the arching slope of his neck and his shoulder. It’s a tempting position. Tempting and sultry. He knows what they look like. Bruised and bleeding. Breathing heavily against each other’s bodies. Here, limbs shaking from exertion,  John might have stopped in the past. Let Lafayette drag his hands down towards his dick. Let him shove John against the wall. Tear down his jeans and take him dry. Let the pain ground him as he fought for both escape and release at the same time.

But he’s not hard. He didn’t come here to fuck. He came here for it to hurt. And while the teeth at his throat offer a tantalizing possibility….he throws his head back and catches the bridge of Lafayette’s nose. “ _F_ _ils de salope!_ ” That’s new. John’s never heard that before. He spins on his heel. Hand raised. Fist curled. Manages to catch Lafayette in the face while he’s still reeling from the broken nose. Pouring blood down his lips.

It’s not enough.

He throws another punch, but Lafayette’s managed to rearrange his priorities. He takes John’s arm and he brings it out and around. Rests a hand against his still smarting elbow, and narrows his eyes. Pain flares. Sharp and poignant. _Break me,_ John thinks suddenly. _Or I’ll break you._ He’s not going to stop until he’s physically incapable of going on. He’ll keep fighting until this is over. Until it’s Lafayette on the ground in pieces, or him.

Lafayette is surgical in his methods. John is not. He’d stomp and crush. No notion of how things are pieced back together. He wants to tear the world apart, and he would - if Lafayette told him to. He would explode (or implode?) on Lafayette’s command. Or he’d break Lafayette here and now.

John thrashes. He can feel his arm straining. Testing the limits of Lafayette’s control. There are words pressing against his tongue. But he can’t say any of them. Can’t let them free. Not now. Not when he needs this to end bloody and wrong. Not when he’s desperate for release of an altogether different kind.

Lafayette’s smile spreads. “ _Mon monstre préféré…_ ” he hums.

He breaks John’s arm.

And the screaming noise in his head stops. Pain consumes him. His lungs expand.

He can finally breathe.

 _Someone else would have asked,_ he thinks. But Lafayette doesn't. He prefers it that way. 

* * *

 

Lafayette takes him to the hospital. The school clinic asks too much questions. But the ready care center not too far out of town is understaffed and overbooked. They’re let in. Given only cursory looks of contemplation, before the doctor moves to set John’s arm. John sits still the whole while. Squeezing the break. Letting the pain ground him. Give him a focus point.  A lightning shock of  a wake up call.

A reminder he’s still alive.

Lafayette still hasn’t asked. Hasn’t brought up the possibility that this fight was different from their last ones. That his motivations were different. _Break me._ How Alex. If he’d been able to get his mouth to start working, he might have begged. Lafayette would have liked that. But he wouldn’t have broken John’s arm if he’d begged. Or maybe he would have. John isn’t quite sure where Lafayette is at the moment when it comes to _his_ boundaries.

So busy convinced that he’s a monster. So worried that John will think less of him. He holds back where John relishes in the chance to let loose. Knowing Lafayette will always win is so much better. He’ll always put John in his place. It feels good. Scratching through his life. Clawing for dominance. Only to be put back in his slot in line. Shown just what he was. Is.

The doctor asks him what happens.

John shakes his head.

Lafayette spins the tale.

They were walking home when a tall white man and his friends approached them. They fought as hard as they could of course, but they couldn’t win. They didn’t even want any money. This has never happened before. Is this area known for its hate groups? Maybe they should have chosen a different college.

The question makes the doctor uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to get involved. It’s a good story. John had seen how the man sneered when he’d first walked into the room. The city might not have a lot of hate groups, but the doctor’s a bastard.

He’s not gentle when he fits the cast around John’s arm. That’s fine. _Let it hurt._

He hands over his insurance card when the nurse prompts him to. Lets Lafayette twirl the keys in his hand. He wonders if he tries to go for them if Lafayette would hit him in the face. Let the keys slash across his cheek. Tear lines into his flesh that won’t heal. Split the freckles above his mouth. Connecting all the dots.

Lafayette grins at him. He _knows_.

They walk back to the car. John hugs his arm to his chest. He can’t squeeze it the way he wants to with the cast on. Can’t feel the broken limb and move it about. Send blinding jolts through his body. Filling him up with sensation. Drowning him in an agony so sweet John doesn’t know if anything else will compare.

“If you want to hit me again, you’ll have to let it heal.” Lafayette whispers into his ear. Teeth grazing the lobe.

John knows that. But he needs this. The break ended their fight. But he’s not ready. He’s still filled with — he _needs_ this. He can feel the buzzing starting to rise again. Starting to drown out all sense and logic. There are words spiraling through his head. John doesn’t want to hear them. Doesn’t want to think about them.

He twists away from the man. _Fuck you, dad._ Gets the words up out of his throat. And speaks. “I’m not afraid of that.” Lafayette arches a brow. It looks ridiculous. His swollen nose (set in place but still badly bruised), making his features puffy and absurd. He would have looked better if he’d raised both. This...is just lopsided and wrong.

John laughs.

“What are you afraid of, _mon cherie?_ ” Lafayette asks him. They’re almost to the car now. Lafayette reaches for the driver’s side door. Opens it. But waits. One arm resting on the roof of the car. John’s frozen by the passenger side. Lafayette doesn’t make him any promises. They’ve never discussed limits.

John wants to be broken. But telling Lafayette the truth…No. It’s a truth Lafayette already knows. The same truth that Lafayette struggles with. Why he holds back. Why he doesn’t push John more than John is ready for. Fear. Worry that someone's going to disappear and never come back.

There are two people in this world John could trust with the truth. One would never even think about leaving, too gentle and sweet for this world as it is. (“I can be sweet for you,” Alex had told him once. Lain beneath his body. Arching up. “Please?” he whispered, batting his eyes as their groins collided). The other...Lafayette knows him.

Knows him truly.

And maybe it's okay to trust. “The dark,” John answers. It’s not what he means. Not really. But Lafayette’s eyes narrow. John can see his mind spinning.

“That’s not it,” Lafayette tells him confidently. “Perhaps it is more... _being alone in the dark.”_ The words feel like a threat. A promise. _I don't want this._

John’s fingers start shaking. He’ll kill him. If Lafayette keeps cooing about it, he’ll kill him. Broken arm be damned. He’d find a way. He’d find a way. He’d tear him apart. He’d— Lafayette smiles at him. Dagger edge gone from his expression. It's a true smile. Open and pure. Friendly. _Nothing to see here. Everything's perfect._ “Let’s go home, hmm?”

John opens the door. Throws himself into his seat. Lafayette is far more graceful. He settles in, starts the engine, and starts driving down the road. He turns the radio on, and John squeezes his arm to his chest.

Lafayette reaches out. Takes John’s hand. Turns it around so it lays flat on the center console. Then one by one starts pulling his fingers backwards. The pain is beautiful. Lafayette doesn’t break them. But he squeezes and pulls. Twists them and leans them farther and farther until they’re almost there.

Sometimes. If he’s lucky. Lafayette digs his nails into the flesh and scratches down.

 _I’ll kill him another time,_ John reasons. He closes his eyes. And falls to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Alex is a butterfly seeking nectar from a rotting flower. He floats around John. Hands hovering over the cast. He asks all the questions Lafayette didn’t. Still won’t. Never does. _What happened? Why’d you go so far? Are you all right?_

John avoids answering most of them, explains that it was a mistake. _You know how we get?_ And Alex promptly takes over as nursemaid. Brings him food and water. Cuts up the food into small little bites. Carries John’s books like a good little girl. Lafayette watches with dark eyes.

Alex has no idea which one of them he’s enticing with his behavior. It’s amusing. Hilarious. John settles in. Lets Alex tend to him. Lets him flit about. Trying to help. Press sweet kisses to John’s skin. Cuddle around him and nuzzle into his chest. Alex won’t fight him until the cast’s off. John knows that for a fact. But Alex will be there every step of the way, and he won’t forget about John in the meanwhile.

When he leaves to go back to Aaron and their bizarre relationship, door closing behind him with a soft click, John bats his eyes at Lafayette. “Is there something more you need?” he asks sweetly. Lafayette surges forward. Takes John’s hair in his hand. Squeezes a hand to his throat. “Please?” John asks. He licks his lips. Widens his eyes. Docile and meek. Everything Lafayette avoids. But everything John knows Lafayette secretly craves.

A pretty bird, fragile, breakable, and completely _his._

Well, John’s wing is already broken. So hell. _Cur non?_

 

* * *

 

They lay together in bed. Lafayette flipping through the pages of a textbook. Sometimes, they do need to study. Tonight it’s psychology. John thinks Lafayette took it as a way to diagnose himself. John avoids it like the plague. Psychologists never did anything for him. They never would.

Lafayette seems to need confirmation he’s a monster. Needs to see it in black and white. Proof that he’s just as despicable as he always thought he was. He wears it like armor. “I know I’m a monster. Don’t come close.” The disclaimer at the top of a story. The warning label before the movie plays.

Warning: This person is rated NC-17. Not suitable for children under the age of 17 for graphic displays of violence, content of a sexual nature, and psychopathy. May instill a sense of prey or fear or loathing in the viewer. Should be avoided at all costs.

Lafayette turns another page. He pauses. Makes a noise in the back of his throat. Interested. “Have you ever heard of ‘feral children,’” Lafayette asks. John contemplates his answer. He contemplates too long. “Children who are left alone, devoid of human contact for so long they act as animals.”

There’s a scratching of a pen. Lafayette taking notes. Something more interesting than the definition. “This one girl, in your _United States,”_ he always blames _his_ United States when he’s displeased with something. Like John had a choice. “She was kept in a room by herself for thirteen years. Almost since birth.” John wonders if she had a window.

Lafayette sits up. The bed shifts beneath him. He crawls to John’s side. Knees bracketing John’s body. Nails finding purchase beneath John’s shirt. Sliding sharp little lines across his flesh. John stares out towards the _ridiculous_ night light Lafayette had purchased just last week. Where did he even _find_ a fleur-de-lis in this crappy town?

Teeth bite at his ear. Breath ghosting across his skin. He shifts. Squeezes at the wrist of John’s good arm. “Each limb tied down. Unable to move. Unable to speak.” He bites at John’s throat. “Only fed when her father thought of her.”

_Enough._

John wiggles free. He doesn’t want to fight someone who’ll fight back. He needs to be in control. Can't risk being pinned down. Being taken. He wants—he _needs—_

Lafayette captures John’s chin with his fingers. Pulls him down for a kiss. Bites his lips, then drags John down on top of him. Lets John brace himself. Broken arm carefully tucked out of the way. No weight leaning on it. It’s safe. It’s not enough. Lafayette’s looking at him with too intense eyes. As if he could— as if he could—

His thumb dips between John’s lips. Presses against his teeth. “Fuck me,” Lafayette commands.  

He rarely asks John to.

But John always does what he says.

 

* * *

 

He has his earbuds in. Listening to some French crap that Lafayette told him to listen to. It’s supposed to be the pinnacle of their new wave of music. John endured hours of rhapsodizing on it. It’s got a catchy beat, but John’s not sure if he can get over the language barrier.

Class sign ups are soon. He’s already started looking at taking French. Seeing if it’ll fit into his schedule. He hates himself for doing it. It seems so domestic. Lafayette will laugh at him. And maybe that’s why it’s worth it. Because the second Lafayette laughs, he’ll punch him in his teeth. And the blood and the violence will feel so good under his nails. Coursing through his body. When they’re done, Lafayette will pin him down. Teach him French in his own way as he ravishes John. Each second John will fight. And each second he’ll know that Lafayette has him. He’s not letting go.

He gets home before Lafayette. Stares at the empty house. Discomfort settling within him. He doesn’t like being here without Lafayette. Thinks for a moment that he should call Alex. Maybe catch dinner with him. Even if it means spending more time with Aaron Burr. John tosses his keys onto the counter. Drops his bag by the stairs. He’ll do his homework later.

Lafayette’s psychology book has migrated to the living room. It’s closed. But the post-it notes earmark the last section he was reading. John’s skin itches. He needs to leave. _Stromae_ continues rapping in French. He nudges the volume even louder. Anything to block out the sound of his own heart beating.

Turning towards the door, he tells himself it’s not his fault he didn’t see the bat. He’s just stupid.

He sees it swinging. He tries to turn out of the way. It catches him anyway.

He’s unconscious before he hits the ground. Guess Lafayette finally had enough.

He wishes he could say he’s surprised. But really.

He isn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

Lafayette comes home almost an hour later than he intends. A group project insisted they meet after class to go over details for the finals, and Lafayette nodded and let it play out. His stomach growled with each passing moment. Hunger clawing at his innards. He debated calling Alex and John. Go out to dinner just the three of them. Draw his nails across John’s thigh and watch him squirm while he tried not to react in public. Catch Alex’s eye and make him blush.

But John didn’t answer his phone, and Alex apparently was eating with Aaron and Madison.

Frustration bubbled within him as he made his way back to his house. More so with John than Alex. John’s responses had rarely been immediate. But at least he responded.

He pulls into his driveway and scowls at John’s car. It sits there innocently. Like a challenge. There are lights that on in the foyer. Lafayette flicks his car door handle, prodding the door open with his foot. Snatching his bag, he hip-checks the door closed. Speed-walks toward the house.

John’s spoiling for a fight in all likelihood. There’s only so much that Lafayette can do to him while his arm’s in a cast. But clearly it’s not enough for John. He’s been bucking more and more. Desperate to get his energy out. Lafayette should tell him to run. Run until he pukes. And when he’s done running, Lafayette will drag him by his hair back into the house. Lay into his back while he snarls and thrashes. Bite his shoulders and arms. Rejoice in each hit John successfully lands. Smile with each victory.

The fantasy plays out beautifully. Ends with John laying on his stomach. Breathing deep. Eyes fluttering. Spent. His hand clutching Lafayette’s. All but begging — don’t go.

Lafayette steps into his house. Fully expects to see John at the couch. Book on his knee. Or cell phone. Playing one game or another. He’d started something new recently. Something with bases and beaches or something. Lafayette can’t remember. Isn’t interested, to be honest.

But John’s not there.

His keys are on the counter. Where he _knows_ Lafayette hates them being. His bag’s by the stairs. His iPod—

His iPod’s on the floor. Wires tangled. There’s blood staining the earbuds. Lafayette walks towards them slowly. All the house drifting away. Attention locked on the device. Hyper-focussed.

He kneels.

The blood splattered a little. Hitting the table and chairs. But it drained around the iPod. Forming a small, almost inconsequential puddle. Staining the earbuds red. Lafayette picks the music player up slowly. Turns it over. Flicks it on. _Racine Carrée_ is selected. But nothing’s playing. It’d have played out. Finished while it rested on the ground.

Lafayette resists the urge to call John’s name. He already knows. John’s not here.

He stands up. Wraps the earbuds around the iPod just as John likes them. _(“Keeps them from getting tangled. Stop giving me that look.”)_ Tucks it into his pocket. He approaches John’s bag. Searches through it just to be thorough. He already knows the result. No phone. No surprise.

Walking towards the backdoor, Lafayette stares down at the lock. Broken. Still tapping against the frame uselessly.

Lafayette knows, if there places were switched, John would be shaking.  Limbs filling with adrenaline. Hands clenching into fists. The need to fight and to lash out blinding him to all else.

But their places haven’t been switched. And Lafayette isn’t shaking. He’s perfectly calm.

He walks upstairs. Turns on his computer, and types in John’s cell-phone number for the find-me app they’d installed. He waits as it tracks down the phone, and when he finds it, he goes.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a lake that’s technically part of school property. It’s part of an off-campus nature group that strives to make the world a better place by planting flowers or some shit. Lafayette doesn’t care. He’s never been. He parks his car. Steps out, and follows his coordinates until he gets to the edge of the lake.

John’s phone is sitting on his jacket. Folded over his shoes. Lafayette picks it up. Turns it on. There’s a note there. “I couldn’t take it anymore, Laf. Sorry.”

 _“Non,”_ Lafayette whispers. _“Tu n’es pas. Pas encore.”_ It’s a quaint little scene. Charming almost. Depressed and guilt ridden Laurens diving out into the lake. Eager to end his own life. Can’t swim because of his arm. Drowns. Lafayette can feel anxiety starting to swell within him at the words. So personal and demanding.

But the feeling passes. He might have believed it. Could even see how the story would work. Why it would work. Understand the outsider's perspective. And maybe Laurens’ body is somewhere under the water. But it wasn’t suicide. And it wasn’t dropped in from here.

That, Lafayette knows for a fact.

Whoever orchestrated this farce hadn’t bothered walking out into the water themselves. Didn’t try to hiding the fact that there’s only one set of footprints walking across the gravelly sand. One set going forward. Placing the bundle by the shore. One set walking back.

Back, towards the woods. _Not_ towards the parking lot. Lafayette picks up John’s things. Slips the phone into his pocket for safe-keeping. Then stands. Icy fury giving him a strange sense of calm. He turns his head towards the woods. And he follows the trail inside.

He walks swiftly. Confidently. It’s dark. Whoever it was that left him John’s things did so because they wanted a vantage point, and they wanted proof he saw it. They wouldn’t be far. And they wouldn’t be too far off the path either. Even if they were, Lafayette’s confident he’ll hear them.

He does.

There’s a muffled curse. A twig breaking. Lafayette drops John’s clothes and he _runs._ Vaults over fallen branches. Skips over mud puddles. Flies over leaves. The curse turns into a yelp. The perpetrator scrambling through the brush. Trying to move without getting caught up. Without hurting.

Lafayette almost laughs. The bristles that cut his skin. The twigs that snap against his arms and legs. They don’t _matter_. Pain is a modifier. It’s an enhancement. It’s the body’s way of telling you something is wrong. Lafayette knows what’s wrong, and he knows what’s going to make it better.

He snaps a hand out, catches the squirly weasel by the shirt sleeve. Whirls him about and breaks the man’s arm with none of the loving affection he’d broken John’s. John wanted to be broken. He’d begged him to. He’d pleaded for it. Bucked against him, relishing in the feeling of both the fight and the enforced submission. John wanted to _feel._ Lafayette knows this man doesn’t.

He breaks it anyway.

The man screams. Not the choked off howl of a lover in ecstasy. Finally granted the peace he desires. But the tortured yell of someone who had no idea what they’d done.

Lafayette presses him up against a tree. Holds the broken limb still. Ready to _tear it from his body_ if his victim so much as attempted to flee. He presses his arm against the man’s throat. Leans in. Teeth only centimeters from his nose. “Where is John Laurens?” Lafayette asks, calm and charming. Peaceful even. The words are silky smooth. John shudders when he speaks to him like that. Arching his back up even as he puts up his usual fight. John _loves_ it when Lafayette talks to him like that.

This man wets himself.

Eyes wide, mouth still floundering. Tears streaking down his face.

Loyalty gone with the first sparks of pain. He speaks, “Jefferson! Jefferson has-has-has him!”

 _Jefferson._ Lafayette should have let John kill him. Should have let John break his neck. Relish in the power between them. John acting out the violence Lafayette held at bay. His willing monster, willing to do anything so long as he could _feel it._

“And where is Mr. Jefferson now?” Lafayette asks curiously. Twisting the arm more. Feeling the bones straining along their jagged edges.

“I-I don’t-I don’t— he took him up 38! I just—” Lafayette squeezes again. The man howls with pain. Screams so loud that a spooked owl flies off in the night. “He gave me the things! Told me to call when you came!”

Lafayette hums. He’s not interested in this anymore. This man knows _nothing._ He is nothing. Meaningless. A messenger. “Call where?” he asks. There’s a phone in the man’s pocket. He plucks it out easily. Listens as the main squeals like a pig in the process. Twisted again. Arm likely breaking in another difficult spot. So sorry for him.

There’s a number pre-dialed. Waiting to be hit. “Is this it?” he shows the screen to his prey. Who nods desperately. Frantically.

Lafayette lets the man go. Watches him fall to the ground. There’d been blood on John’s iPod. Struck from behind in Lafayette’s house. Head bleeding on the playlist Lafayette had made for him.

He lifts his foot, and kicks hard. The man stops sobbing. There’s blood on the grass around him.

Lafayette clicks _call._ The phone starts ringing.

“Is it done?” Jefferson asks in his ear.

“Where is John Laurens?” Lafayette asks back.

There’s a pause. Then a laugh. “Did you leave him alive?” Jefferson asks. Still laughing. The man on the ground is broken and bleeding. But he’ll live.

Lafayette’s not playing this game. “Where is John Laurens?” he asks again, returning back the way he came. Tracking the ground for John’s jacket and shoes. He finds them easily. White leather flashing neon in the moonlight.

“Beg me for him,” Jefferson tells him. Lafayette’s fingers squeeze tight. His teeth grind down.

_(“Beg me to stop,” John whispered into Jefferson’s ear. Eyes lifting to meet Lafayette’s. He’s got Jefferson’s fingers in his hand. They’re already broken, but he’s going to break them again. “Beg me for him,” John pulls back on Jefferson’s hair, forces him to look up at Lafayette._

_“Please—” Jefferson chokes out. The first of the night. He’s starting to crack._

_But Alexander had been flayed alive. Left scarred and broken on Jefferson’s floor. And no one had listened when he’d wanted to leave. Lafayette imagined Alexander praying for the end. Heedless of the thought he could die._

_He shook his head._

_“Not good enough,” John told Jefferson. He breaks the finger again. Jefferson screams. They don’t stop.)_

“Beg me,” Jefferson requests.

“Please,” Lafayette responds.

Jefferson laughs. “Not good enough.” The line goes dead.

 

* * *

 

Jefferson’s house is empty. Drop cloths cover the furniture. There’s dust on the floor. Every room has been sanitized. Left for a man who’s clearly not coming back. Or at least, that’s the illusion it provides.

Jefferson would have sold the house if he didn’t care. This illusion is absurd. Jefferson is playing a game. Laughing at him. Pretending he doesn’t know what this is doing. Lafayette squeezes his hands into tight fists.

He stomps back to his car. Slams the door closed. Drives back to campus. Firing off a text as he approaches Aaron’s dorm.

[From Little Alex]

_Coming! ;) ;) ;)_

He waits by the door. Anger rising as he thinks about how long it’s been. His watch reads that it’s almost midnight by now. John would have gotten home around four. Eight hours. He’s been gone for eight hours.

The door opens. Alex throws his arms around Lafayette’s neck. He allows the embrace. Then gently sets Alex to the side. He strides past him without stopping. He’s walking swiftly. Alex’s shorter legs struggle to keep up. He hurries though, rambling in the adorable way that Lafayette usually encourages.

Not today.

“Laf?” Alex asks. It occurs to Lafayette he hasn’t said one word to the man since arriving at the dorm. It doesn’t matter. There’s Aaron’s dorm. And just beyond - James Madison. He steps inside.

Madison is much improved from his last run in with whatever drug dealer he’d been consorting with. He looks up. A cornered rabbit always knows when it’s being hunted. Aaron shifts on his bed. He’s raising his hands. _We’re not a threat._

No.

They’re not.

Striding across the room, Lafayette keeps his smile pleasant. Cordial. “Tell me every place Jefferson knows.” Alex slips in behind Lafayette. Closes the door. Smart boy.

He shifts about. Stands in front of him. Between his friends. _Far less smart._ He looks at Lafayette as though he’s been struck, though. As though the mere mention of Jefferson is enough to place him back on that floor.

Lafayette would never break Alex like Jefferson broke him. When Alex broke, he’d be begging for it. Not begging for it to _stop_.

He bares his teeth. Let’s his smile grow wider.

“Is that blood?” Aaron asks slowly. Lafayette lets Alex reach for his hands. Lets him touch the torn sleeves of his shirt. The scratches that have been bleeding since his run through the woods. One stick had dug particularly deep.

Madison scoots up. He’s sitting tall now. Then he’s standing. He approaches slowly. Aaron makes a noise of protest. He _knows_ who Lafayette is. More than that. Knows _what_ he is. “Laf?” Alex asks. Voice straining. “Where’s John?”

Lafayette moves his hand. Slides it up Alex’s body. Takes the back of his neck between his thumb and pointer finger. Squeezes it. Pulls his head to his shoulder. Lets his nails dig into Alex’s flesh. Alex makes a choked sound. His shoulders hitch. Lafayette can almost smell the tears.

_This is not what he wants._

Looking between Alex and Lafayette, Madison squares his shoulders. Nods. “I’ll show you.” _Abandon hope all ye who enter here._

Lafayette releases Alex’s neck. He shoots a look at Aaron who immediately goes to Alex’s side. When he leaves, Madison is at his heels. Lafayette can hear Alex sob. He’d finally started to get better.

Jefferson’s words echo in his head.

_Beg me for him._

Lafayette’s going to kill him.

 

* * *

 

They search through the night. Madison takes him everywhere in town first. Then they go to the outskirts. Then the outskirts of the outskirts. To his credit, Madison doesn’t say a word when Lafayette enters buildings filled with drug dealers or gang bangers. He merely assists where he can, and then steps out of Lafayette’s way.

When the phone rings sometime around 8AM, after they’d been searching all night, Madison’s lips press to a thin line. He watches as Lafayette wipes blood off his knuckles. Answers the phone with the same question he’d been asking since he found John’s bloody iPod. “Where is John Laurens?”

Jefferson laughs. “You sound tired... _mon cherie.”_ Lafayette listens closely. Let Jefferson gloat. He doesn’t care. He wants to hear if John is with him. He strains his ears. Tries to pick up a thud. A whimper. A call. Anything.

There is silence behind Jefferson. The sound of his voice drones on. “Beg me for him,” Jefferson barters. Smug. Amused.

“Please,” Lafayette says the word. He’ll say whatever word Jefferson wants him to say. He’ll get down on his knees. He’ll debase himself. He isn’t too prideful to capitulate. He isn’t so foolish as to not know how this game is played. “Please tell me where Laurens is.”

Jefferson hums again. Thoughtful. Playful. “Not _good_ enough.” The call ends with a beep. Lafayette resists the urge to break his stolen phone. It won’t help. It won’t make things better. It would only cut off his one avenue of communication.

Still. He wants to destroy something. _Anything._

“It’s been four months,” Madison murmurs suddenly. Lafayette twists toward him. If Madison pushes now, _he_ might be the one to get broken. Even as innocent as he might be in John’s disappearance. He was Jefferson’s friend at one point. That he’s Alex’s now means very little. “Four months...he can’t possibly be out yet.”

_Out. He’d been arrested. Sent to jail. He can’t be out._

Unless...he’s on probation awaiting trial. Which means...there’s a police officer somewhere with a very good idea of where Jefferson spends his days. Lafayette pulls out his own phone.

He calls Hercules Mulligan.

* * *

 

Waiting is difficult. Lafayette sits in Madison’s dorm. Alex curled against him. Aaron watching not far away. It’s stiff and it’s quiet, and Lafayette needs action. Needs to be moving. Needs to be with Mulligan as he goes to his police contacts. His school contacts. His _contacts._ Needs to hear what they say. He wants information.

He wants something to go off of.

He has nothing.

Alex is squeezing his arms around his waist. Lafayette’s digging his hands into Alex’s skin. Knowing his bruising the man in front of his boyfriend(s?), but neither are stopping him. Neither seem to mind. Alex just presses himself deeper into Lafayette’s touch.

It’s not nearly enough.

He disentangles himself from Alex. Stands and leaves the dorm. Alex threatens to follow him. “You do not intend to follow me to the bathroom, do you little Alex?” he asks with all the calm serenity as he can muster. Alex is conflicted. He licks his perfect lips. Hands twisting themselves in front of him. He’s been pale and shaking since John’s disappearance became clear.

Guilt is a powerful weapon.

He won’t let Alex take this blow too. But he can’t stand here with him. Not now. It’s never been in his nature.

Turning, he walks to the bathroom. Locks the door with a click behind him. He meets his own eyes in the mirror. The bruising around his broken nose had long since healed. The swelling imperceptible.

He turns on the faucet. Lets it run. Watches as the shoddy water heater attempts to warm the stream. There’s a heat lock. It won’t go above a certain point. So much different from his own home. Where once, he’d held John under the shower. Watched as John’s skin turned rosy red. Listened as he moaned and fought. Scalded, but loving every moment of it.

After, John bit at Lafayette’s chest. Sucked bruises above his nipples. Scratched his nails across his sides as Lafayette pressed against his too heated skin. _Mine._ John had breathed into Lafayette’s ear. _“Non,”_ Lafayette had whispered back. _“Tu es à moi.”_

He slammed the faucet lever down. The water stopped immediately. Hands gripping the sides of the sink, Lafayette struggled to breathe. He’d never thought he’d find someone like John. Someone who wanted the same as he did. Who yearned for the pain and violence like he did. Someone who would fight him every step of the way, drag him down a merry chase of blood and violence, but at the end of the day would let Lafayette break him. Tear him apart. Make him _his._ Someone who saw their own monsters in Lafayette, and still followed him down the rabbit hole.

 _His._ In every sense of the word.

Lafayette pulls out John’s phone. Turns it on. Scrolls through the stupid games. The lovingly made playlist. The missed calls. The messages. He recognizes every number. Every contact. Every— wait.

There’s one message saved. From almost a month ago. _DO NOT PICK UP_ is the contact. But apparently not answering is not synonymous with not listening to the message. It’s not new. John’s listened to it.

So Lafayette does as well.

“John, it’s your father.” The tone is wrong. Lafayette’s heard parents talking to their children. He remembers his own parents before they passed. This tone had been delivered with all the affection of Key Bank calling about overdue credit cards. “Your sister has informed me she invited you to her graduation this June. This was highly inappropriate of her. If you arrive, you will not be permitted to attend. You are not welcome here, or anywhere near this family. I _will_ have you arrested if you step one foot onto our property.” The call ended without another word.

Lafayette considers the message. One hand raising to trace the tender skin around his face. He’s going to find John. And when he does. He’s going to give him exactly what he’d wanted all those weeks ago. Pain, and the ability to unload without fear. Without repercussions. Maybe he’ll give John Jefferson on a platter.

Let John finally kill the man like he’d wanted to do four months ago. John’d like that.

More than that….so would Lafayette.

 

* * *

 

John wakes up and it’s dark. He shivers. Skin pressed against the cold ground. He lifts a hands to his eyes. There’s nothing there. Blood stains his hair. Sticky and wet. He traces the edges of the wound. Feeling where his skull was cracked under the skin. He vomits almost immediately.

Turning on his side and puking. He braces himself. His broken arm trembling violently under the strain. He feels...adrift. Dizzy. Something’s wrong with him. He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is dry. His lips feel fuzzy.

That’s not right.

He blinks rapidly, but the darkness doesn’t lift. The cold doesn’t get better. Tears are pressing against his eyes. He doesn’t understand what’s going on. He’s not sure where he is. He crab walks backwards. Hits a stone wall. His head jars against it.

He moans. Sobs.

He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be here.

_I want to leave._

“L-La-Laf—” he can’t get the word out. Can’t speak. He sobs again. Tears streaming down his face. He’s shaking so violently his head is spinning even more. Lafayette never pushed him like this before. Never hit him in the head on purpose.

What’d he do wrong?

No that’s not right. It’s not. But.

He pressed his hand to his head. Everything hurt. He couldn’t see. It was too dark. But more than that— it was quiet. He couldn’t hear anything. Not the cars outside. Not footsteps in the hall. Not breathing in the corner.

John stumbled to his feet. Nearly toppling over. Swaying dangerously to each side. He leaned against the wall. Heavily. Dragging each foot underneath him as he started to walk a circuit. Feeling for any light switch. Any door. Anything.

He tried counting steps. But lost track. Thoughts spinning uselessly. He couldn’t manage to get a word out straight. Couldn’t manage to say what he wanted. He could feel his pulse in the gash along his skull.

His right foot caught on the back of his left ankle. He yelped. Fell to the ground. Knees striking concrete. Sending pain, not at all wanted, screeching through his body once again. More tears came out. Nothing. No light switch. No door. No furniture. Nothing but him. Alone in the dark.

_No one wants to see you._

“Stop. Stop. I-I- _Laf!”_

There’s a difference. He knows there is. There’s a difference between before and now. He shouldn’t have said anything. Shouldn’t have trusted. It’s not fair. He’s so stupid.

Tears start pressing out even faster. He curls into a ball. Shaking violently. Stomach rolling. Head throbbing. He’s alone. And no one’s coming.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will always come for you. I will never let you go. You’re mine.”

It’s been two days. Lafayette’s shaking violently. Trying to breathe. He’s preparing himself to go door to door. To burn the city to the ground. Madison’s started turning green at his side. Uncomfortable, but uncommenting. For a man no one had any trouble tracking down in the past, Jefferson seems to be impossibly difficult to find now.

They’ve spoken to the police. Aaron insisted upon it once the first twenty-four hours past. That’s fine. The more people looking the better. Even if it means Jefferson’s arrested when this is over, and Lafayette misses the chance to tear him apart. He’ll find a way. Somehow. He’s very patient.

But the police don’t listen. Don’t think they have a case. “It’s a college town,” they’re reminded. “It’s a weekend.” As if John just went off by himself and will be back in class on Monday. They don’t send someone to Lafayette’s house. They don’t make any phone calls.

Mulligan needs to insist. Needs to get his contacts involved. They apply pressure until finally a beat cop is assigned to their case. Promising to call Jefferson. And he does. Apparently. _They_ know where to find him, at least.

But they won’t tell Lafayette where he is. Won’t tell him anything. “I’ll get it,” Mulligan swears. Lafayette believes him.

But how long will it take?

How long will John be, wherever John is?

And he knows. Knows that John can handle pain. Can handle anything Jefferson wants to do to him. But there were things they’d done to Jefferson that night that Lafayette wouldn’t want John to feel. The hot burn of cocaine up his nose. The sting of addiction. The humiliation to go along with the pain.

John didn’t get off on humiliation. And the pain came at his terms. Lafayette’s seen him get hurt accidentally. Playing football. Tripping on a staircase. His reactions are furious. Hateful. As if he’s better than that. As if he’d been hurt like anyone else.

Pain comes when he wants it to come. Not a moment before. And Lafayette knows...John doesn’t want this.

He squeezes his hands into fists. “Let’s try Washington Ave,” Madison suggests. He shakes his head.

“I need some time alone.” Madison frowns. Uncomfortable with the idea. But Lafayette doesn’t need, nor want, a babysitter. He makes a show of patting the three phones he’d acquired. “You can find me whenever you want.”

He leaves. Mulligan’s taking too long. Someone in the police department knows where Jefferson is. He’ll even ask nicely this time.

 

* * *

 

 

Alex only has a few hours head start. The email came in while Hercules was on the phone trying to get someone to give him more information. Mulligan paces. Oblivious to the note that was jingling in his inbox. Still open from the last time he’d checked. Alex sees it. Sees the subject line, and clicks it.

An address.

He hesitates. Thinks about it. About what needs to happen here. He glances up towards Hercules. Bites his lip. They’ll tell him no. Tell him it’s not his fault. Aaron’s already started that refrain. Hugging him. Whispering the words in his ear. Loving and sweet. But that’s not true. And it doesn’t help. None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for him.

He stands. Mulligan glances over his shoulder to look at him. “I just...can’t keep sitting here,” Alex mumbles. “I’m gonna...gonna go to class.” He picks up his bag. Shifts awkwardly. “Walk me?” He asks, just to be thorough.

Mulligan nods. Closes his phone. And does just that. He promises to pick Alex up when class is over. And Alex thanks him. Being out like this...it’s more than he’d done in a while. But that’s fine. He needs to do this. Needs to find John. Get to him before anyone else. Make sure he’s safe. Save him, like John saved _him._

Alex steps inside the classroom. Watches from the window as Mulligan walks away. And then he stands, and leaves. He has a few hours head start. He’s going to make it count.

Jefferson’s new abode is on the complete opposite side of town. So Alex runs. Runs as fast as he can. Pumping his arms back and forth. Desperation driving him faster than ever before. He’s grateful he’s had practice. The endless marathons he and John would run together make the journey easy. Comfortable. He knows this pace. Knows this motion. He’s going to get there. He will.

Statistics run through his head. He’s seen this on TV. If someone’s not found in the first seventy-two hours, the chances of finding them is something like 20%. Alex needs to make sure they find him. Needs to make sure that he’s okay. That he’s still all right.

It’s been three days. Alex doesn’t care what it costs. He’ll give Jefferson anything so long as John’s okay.

Lafayette told them about the lake. About the phone. And since then, Alex keeps dreaming of John at the bottom of the water. Tied down with ropes at his feet. It’s not an image Alex enjoys. He needs to get free. Needs to get away from it.

Needs to—

Jefferson is home.

The lights are on. Alex skips up the steps three at a time. Knocks hard and fast. His heart is pounding in his throat. He’s shaking violently. He needs this. He needs to set things right. This is his fault. It’s his _fault._ John was taken because he did something to Jefferson _for_ Alex. And— And—

The door opens.

Jefferson stands before him. Scarred. Marred. There are two nails missing on his right hand. There’s a gouge running across his lips. His face has cracks across it. Like an old porcelain doll whose outer layer is no longer sturdy. Skin flaking.

Still. The sight of Jefferson makes Alex’s heart skip a painful beat. He recoils. Unprepared. His teeth clench shut. Throat tight. _He’s not allowed to speak._

Jefferson’s lips twist into a sneer. He’s laughing. Mocking. There’s a knife somewhere in that house. A knife that could twist into Alexander’s skin. Carve out the rest of Jefferson’s name. Brand it against him over and over.

Alex’s hip flares painfully. Illogically. “Please,” Alex manages. His knees give out underneath him. He hits the ground. Jefferson’s eyes follow him. Dark and hooded. Threatening. Promising. “Please, please let John go.”

Jefferson doesn’t say a thing. Just stands above him. Watching. Waiting. “You’re not worth it,” he says evenly. Alex flinches. He knows he’s not. Knows he has nothing to give. Nothing at all. But if being here could give John any sense of peace. Could help him in any way. Could—

There’s a crunch of gravel under tires. Alex turns his head. Recognizes the car. Lafayette steps out. His eyes flick down to Alex at Jefferson’s feet. To Jefferson towering above him. Jefferson tilts his chin upwards. “Send the puppy home,” Jefferson orders Lafayette.

“Go,” Lafayette commands. Alex shivers. His head shaking. But Lafayette is approaching. Walking toward Jefferson with the look of a man prepared to burn the world to the ground. “ _Go.”_ He says again. Reaching for Alex. Squeezing his arm _so_ tight. He pulls Alex to his feet. Shoves him back towards the street. “Now.”

Alex stares. Feet immobile underneath him. Lafayette casts one final look in his direction. Mouth twisting downwards sharply. “Leave.”

So Alex does the only thing he can. He steps back. Rounds the bend. Ducks out of sight. And waits.

The door closes behind Lafayette.

John is still nowhere to be seen.

 

* * *

 

 

Jefferson leads Lafayette further into the house. Brings him to the kitchen. Tells him to sit. Lafayette does. He’ll do whatever Jefferson wants him to do. So long as it brings him to John. Jefferson pulls out a pot. Fills it with hot water. Waits, then places it on the stove. Flicks the burner on. “You like orders,” he muses, turning to look at Lafayette. He grins. Split lips stretching Joker-like across his face. “Don’t you?”

He’s playing a ridiculous game. Steam starts to rise from the pot.

Lafayette knows where this goes. Knows how this ends. He let his hands stay flat. Motionless. “You like _giving_ orders,” Jefferson ammends. His face twitches. He brings one hand to rub against the largest scar John left him with. The one that splits his lips in half. Like a demonic snake.

Lafayette doesn’t comment. Doesn’t care. Jefferson can play vindictive prick all he likes. It’s not going to change this outcome. “Give me your phone.” Lafayette does. Hands it right over. Doesn’t complain. Jefferson frowns. Eyes narrowed. “Put your hands behind your head.”

Lafayette puts his hands back. Lets them tangle in his own hair. The only thing he can do to keep still. Compliant.

Jefferson frisks him. Tsking his tongue when he finds John’s and that asshole’s phones as well. He takes everything. Lafayette’s wallet. His keys. The phones. John’s bloodstained iPod. He jeers a little at that. Waving it in front of Lafayette’s face like a taunt. "Missing someone?"

“Where is John?” Lafayette asks.

Jefferson scoops up the phones. Carries them to the boiling pot. Makes eye contact with Lafayette as he drops them in one at a time. He waits. Doesn't say anything for a moment. Then cracks a grin. "Would you take them back if I told you to? Put your hand in there and leave it because I _told_ you it'd bring you to your John?"

"Where is he?" Lafayette presses. Jefferson steps away from the pot.

“Beg me for him.”

In person, the words are spat out. Grotesque. The phones are a lost cause, too. And it’s infuriating in its own right. John’s phone took him nearly a full year to save up for. And this bastard—

It doesn’t matter.

Taking a deep breath, Lafayette slides to his knees. Folds his legs under him. Lets his hands fall flat on the floor. Palms up. Open supplication. Head down. Lips nearly touching the tile. As submissive as someone can be.

“Please, sir. Please, tell me where John is.” There’s a pause.

Then. “That's not what I told you to do.” The kick isn’t unexpected. It catches Lafayette in the ribs. Sends him into the island. He bites back the urge to block. To defend. It’s not worth it. Not now. Not when Jefferson felt like he had all the power. All the time in the world. Another kick.

Another.

Jefferson attacks with the grace of a brawler. Hard and fast, but no skill. No direction. He’s lashing out to lash out. Like John did before Lafayette molded him into the perfect specimen. The thought makes him grin. Remembering John’s flailing that’s now become so refined. So neat. He’s even beaten Lafayette from time to time.

It’s glorious.

“Stop smiling.” He can’t. He can’t help it. With each strike, the fantasies grow. Jefferson may be beating him now. But when this is done. When John’s home. Jefferson is going to hurt in ways he never expected. He’s going to bleed in ways he never knew he could.

He’s going to suffer more than life itself. By John’s hand. By Lafayette’s hand. They’ll take Jefferson’s life together. Snuff it out completely. How _dare_ Jefferson take what isn't his?

Another kick. This time to his face.

_They’ll peel the skin back from Jefferson’s cheeks. Reveal the muscles underneath. Collect the blood as it pours. Feed it to Jefferson until he chokes._

Jefferson’s reaches for the pot. Turns. Ready to throw it. Lafayette gets a hand up. Water goes everywhere. Sinking through his clothes. Scalding his skin. He can feel it go tender and sore in instants. But Lafayette’s still moving forwards. He grabs Jefferson’s arm. Twists the wrist. Snatches the pot’s handle before it falls. Tugs Jefferson’s shirt up and then —

Jefferson’s _howling._ The searing flesh so much worse than what Lafayette felt. Hot pan _melting_ the skin away.

Lafayette brings the pot close to Jefferson’s face. Yanks his head back so Jefferson knows what’s going to happen. This position is not unique. Jefferson’s been here before.

John pinned him down just like this all those months ago. Right before he forced Jefferson’s nose over the line of cocaine. Ordered him to snort.

“Tell me,” Lafayette sing-songs. Pot quivering above Jefferson’s eye. “Where is John Laurens?” He grinds his weight down. Smiles so Jefferson can feel it. The boiling water aches against Lafayette’s skin. Sinking deeper and deeper through layers of skin. It’ll hurt for a while.

But it will heal.

He leans in closer. Breaths in Jefferson’s scent. No trace of John on his body. Jefferson’s no fool. He constructed this game so he’d never have to see Lafayette in person. Could taunt him from a distance. But now. Now Lafayette can smell the fear wafting up from the man’s body. Can feel him shaking beneath him.

“I’ll show you,” Jefferson swears. Eyeing the pot. Horrified.

Lafayette grins. “Yes...I rather think you will.”

He sets the pot down beside Jefferson’s face. Pulls him up to his feet. “Show me now.”

He’ll let John decide Jefferson’s fate.

 

* * *

 

 

Jefferson drives Lafayette’s car all the way back to Monticello. When Lafayette recognizes the street, he feels a mix of emotions. Fury. Disbelief. Horror. He’d checked this house. He’d checked every floor. Every closet. Every cupboard. “I checked,” he growls. Low and threatening. He’s not going to be made a fool.

Jefferson grins at him. Savagely. Skin still tinged green. One hand pressed against the burn on his side. The other steering carefully. He’s been casting glances since they set off. Uncomfortable. Fearful. But there’s something else. A desire for revenge. One that keeps Lafayette wholly focussed on Jefferson and nothing else. “Not everywhere,” Jefferson tells him.

He parks the car. Gets out. Leads Lafayette around to the back of the house. Towards a garden that’s been ill taken care of. There’s a storm cellar hidden there. A thick metal door. A lock keeps it closed. Jefferson leans down. Turns the combination.

He pulls the door back. Opening it. Lafayette peers around him. There aren’t any stairs. Jefferson gives him a blank look. Unwilling to comment or assist. Lafayette squints into the space below. Afternoon light casting a small panel of visibility into the darkened layer. “John?” He can’t see him. Can’t see any part of him.

But he can hear. A startled gasp. A moan. “L-Laf…” Tired. Strung out. Too much. Lafayette gets to his knees. Tries to see if there’s a way down. If there’s a way back up. He turns.

Frankly.

He expected the strike. He falls forward. Tipping down into the cellar. And he takes Thomas Jefferson with him.

 

* * *

 

 

Lafayette rolls off the fall. Scrambling back to his feet. It was only sixteen feet. His head tucked in. His other injuries smarting. He’s fine. More bruised than he’d been previously. But better off than Jefferson. Jefferson, whose master plan has literally come crashing down around his feet. Who yelped and scuttled the moment he touched bottom. Staring up at Lafayette in horror.

Something smashes up above. The light cancels out. The door closing after them. Never propped up appropriately. Lafayette can hear a pained moan. A whimper that sounds so sweet when Lafayette’s the one drawing it out. But sounds so broken and wrong _now_ that Lafayette’s stomach is reeling.

Thoughts come back in pieces. Dots connecting. It makes sense now. Everything. Jefferson’s taunts. His willingness to play pretend. Driving him back here. He’d planned to knock Lafayette in. Close the door. Throw away the key. They’d die in this hole together. And no one would even know they were down here. The stairs were gone. The escape missing. They were in here, and no one would be coming.

Lafayette tries to hear. Tries to pinpoint either Jefferson or Laurens. Someone’s walking. Walking...walking…

Light fills the room. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling. A string dangling several paces away. John, alone in the dark, hadn’t had a snowflake’s chance in hell finding the string. No one who hadn’t been intimately familiar with the space would have. But Jefferson knows this place. Knows its secrets.

He turns and glares at Lafayette. Like _he’s_ somehow responsible for this. For their predicament.  It doesn’t matter. Lafayette takes one threatening step towards him. Fists clenched. But a broken sound cuts him off. He whirls.

_Three days._

Reality spins into place around him. He looks at John’s cage. The empty cellar. Devoid of everything. Save the lightbulb Lafayette knew John never found. Stone above and below. And just like the smell of Jefferson’s fear, the smell of putrid waste soon filled Lafayette’s nose.

Piss. Shit. Vomit. He tracks the odor. Then finally. _Finally._ Lays eyes on John Laurens.

He’s curled against the ground. Good arm wrapped around his stomach. Bad one reaching out towards him. He hasn’t tried to sit up. Hasn’t tried to approach. Just laying there. Limp. No energy to rise. Eyes staring up at the light bulb as if it’s God itself.

Prey momentarily forgotten, Lafayette approaches. He moves to Laurens’ side. Takes his hand between his. Grazes fingers across his face. “Did you give him any food or water?” Lafayette asks. John’s head in his lap. He wants to kiss. Claim. Care for this tiny broken creature he knows is so much stronger than this. His dear Laurens. _Jefferson’s going to pay._

“Why would I do that?” Jefferson bites out. Too close. John makes a pained noise. A warning. Lafayette ducks the blow coming towards him. Gets back to his feet. Turns to face his opponent.

Now, Jefferson’s fighting because he thinks he has to. Thinks he needs to. They’re trapped down here. There’s no escape. And Jefferson knows Lafayette’s going to kill him. So he’ll try first. He punches. He kicks. He runs forwards and slams his shoulder into Lafayette’s chest.

Lafayette twists out of the way. Struggles to get space between them. Distance between them and John. He can’t can’t do this now. Can’t focus between one and the other. John needs _help._ His too frail body, far too malnourished and broken to be of use, is lying limp on the floor.

Violence and revenge. A desire for safe-keeping. Lafayette steps back. Jefferson follows. “I heard you…” Jefferson huffs. Trying to get in closer. Too close. Lafayette steps out of the way. Keeps Jefferson from stumbling towards John. Onto him. “Afraid of the _dark?_ ” He lands a punch. “How _pathetic._ ”

Lafayette sees red. The clinic. He’d been at the clinic. When John trusted him. Told him something in confidence. Something just for Lafayette. An olive branch Lafayette swore he’d cherish. A boundary Lafayette knew he’d never cross.

And Jefferson. He’d heard. He’d—

Lafayette’s eyes flick around the room. He gets a punch in the face for his distraction. It doesn’t matter. His understanding has expanded. His awareness finally complete. Locked in the dark for three days by himself.

Not even fed by the man who kept him.

John’s nightmare.

Jefferson deserves so much more than this. All the fantasies in the world cross Lafayette’s mind. But nothing comes before John. Nothing ever would. And in the end— fantasies are just fantasies. Reality is far worse.

Jefferson lunges one final times. Lafayette ducks. Turns. Blocks. Takes Jefferson’s head between his palms, and twists.

The body hits the ground.

John’s staring up at him. Brown eyes blinking slowly. Swimming in and out of focus. Lafayette rushes towards him. Kneels once more at his side. He lifts John up. Flinches at the icy skin as it presses against his own. John’s temperature’s too low to be safe. Lafayette knows they’re in trouble.

He cups his palm to John’s cheek. “L...af…” Speaking seems to take all the energy John has. But he tries. Blue lips warbling about his too pale face.

“I’m not leaving,” Lafayette swears. “You’re mine.” A shiver courses through John’s body. His eyes close. “I’m not letting you go.” John breathes deeply. Blood stains his hair. His face. Lafayette traces the wound. Checking the damage. They’re lucky John’s even alive right now.

He needs _help._ “I’m not letting you go.” Lafayette repeats. He looks up.

He’ll never reach the cellar door on his own. There’s no ladder. No hidden door. No stairs. John’s breathing slower and slower against his chest.

Lafayette squeezes him tight.

And then...the door opens.

Alex pokes his head down. Blinking at them. Pale faced. Horrified. He sees Jefferson’s body. Sees Lafayette and John curled around each other. His lips tighten. And he’s gone in a flash. Back before Lafayette even registers he’s gone. A ladder starts to be lowered.

 _Mon dieu,_ Lafayette thinks. _Little Alex is saving us._

He can’t think of anything more perfect.

He doesn’t want to.

“You’re going to be all right,” Lafayette whispers into John’s ear. He picks him up. Adjusts him so he can carry him while climbing. He ties John’s arms and torso to his own with his jacket. Sealing them together. Making it work. He collects his keys from Jefferson’s body. Shoves them into his pocket before he starts to clime. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but he won’t let John fall.

Not again.

He climbs up the ladder. Gets to the top. Lets Alex brace John as he turns back to the cellar. He wishes he had more time. Growling at the body and the space below, Lafayette pulls up the ladder. Closes the door. Leaving Jefferson to rot.

John’s out cold. Consciousness long since gone. His head lolls as Lafayette lifts  him. His body icy cold. Lafayette catches Alex’s eyes. “Take us to the hospital.”

He nods. Face set in determination. Grim, but understanding.

Together, they leave.

 

* * *

 

 

No ready care this time. They go straight to the hospital. The medics take one look at John and sprint him off to the ICU. He goes through dozens of scans. Dozens of blood tests. They have him on a drip trying to get nutrients into him.

The police stop by. The beat cop assigned to their case had reluctantly admitted that he’d given access to Lafayette’s files. Now the cop had been replaced by a surly detective that started asking questions that should have been asked 48 hours ago when they’d first gone to the police for help. Lafayette bit his tongue. They hadn’t been white enough or rich enough to get assistance earlier. Apparently now they had too much.

The detective asked Lafayette why he went by himself. What happened in Jefferson’s house. In the cellar. Lafayette answered. Hands curling into fists. He let the nurses take photos of his own injuries. Let them declare he was in shock. Let them debate semantics.

Someone went to Jefferson’s houses. Took even more pictures. Made even more judgements. They all grudgingly admitted that Jefferson clearly appeared to be at fault. Handshakes were given. Statements were sealed and filed. Self defence. Lafayette was in the clear.

And John played the pretty victim. John, who slept through the bulk of the questions asked. Who blearily stared at the faces. Speechless. Flinching at every noise. Ducking his head into the pillows. Shivering despite the heat. The blankets. The contact.

Mulligan is furious with both Lafayette and Alex. Disbelieving that they’d take care of something on their own. Aaron doesn’t have an opinion. As per usual. He wishes John well, but his focus is on Alex.

Alex who saw his own demon die today. Who helped Lafayette and John get out when no one else did. Alex who followed Lafayette and Jefferson from the house. Who saw everything that happened. Who came anyway. Who Lafayette will owe a debt to for the rest of his life. Aaron is welcome to Alex. Alex deserves someone who puts him first. And Lafayette can’t do that. Never could.

He sits at John’s side. Holds his hand. Traces patterns over paper thin skin. John watches him do it. Dull and useless.

Broken.

Lafayette brings John’s hand to his lips. And wishes he’d had more time.

 

* * *

 

 

The hospital insists John spend the rest of the week there. Filling him with fluids. Watching his body weight. Scanning his brain. He’d had a concussion. A bad one. The three days in the dark did nothing for its healing. They needed to drain blood from his skull where it’d pooled. They’d needed to run him through a battery of tests.

 

The words ‘brain damage’ were used far too often for Lafayette to feel comfortable. He’d already started to rearrange his schedules, priorities. Figuring out what he’d need to do to help John. Even knowing that if John didn’t heal, as horrible as it was, he’d resent John for his inability to match him. The thought made his stomach clench. His head buzz.

John had been attacked in his house. Been kidnapped because he’d been following Lafayette’s orders. And when doctors threatened to declare John permanently afflicted...Lafayette knew he couldn’t _handle_ it. _I told him I was a monster,_ Lafayette thought savagely.

He paces John’s hospital room. Stares at the charts. Tries to rationalize who he is with what John needs. Someone soft. Someone caring. Someone there. Alex.

It’s never going to be Lafayette. Never going to be someone who is desperate for blood and violence. Who needs someone dominant to fight him. To tear him apart. To let him own and complete.

John holds out his hand. Lafayette flinches. He looks at it like it might burn. “Please,” John asks. Begs.

_Beg me for him._

Lafayette approaches. He crawls into the bed beside John. Pulls John onto his chest. Wraps an arm around his shoulder. John’s tense. Not relaxing in the least. It’s awkward and uncomfortable for them both. Lafayette doesn’t know what to do.

John twitches. Presses his face closer to Lafayette’s heart. Digs his nails into the still tender flesh beneath Lafayette’s shirt. He breathes in sharp. John’s attentions, kittenish at best. But it’s an invitation. A request. The best John can manage.

It’s what he wants.

Carefully.

Slowly.

Lafayette presses his hand to John’s throat. He digs nails into John’s skin. He squeezes. And John goes pliant beneath his touch. Relaxing. At peace. The pain anchoring him in place.

And in the morning — the swelling starts to go down. The charts improve. His scans begin coming back clear.

Lafayette watches as John’s weight starts to pick back up. His pale skin begins to darken once more. His eyes retain their focus. They track Lafayette with precision. Only finding true peace when Lafayette squeezes a wrist too hard. Touches a pressure point just right. Bites against his ear and whispers _Mine_ every way he knows how.

On day five, John answers every question the doctor asks without fail. And he’s going to be all right.

 

* * *

 

 

They go home.

John, unsteady on his feet. Lafayette helping him up the stairs. Into the front door. They stand in the living room. Johns keys still on the counter. His bag still by the door. His blood still staining the table. Lafayette did get the iPod back, for a very short while. But it’s currently in police lock up for “evidence.” He doubts they’ll see it again.

John takes the room in slowly. He processes just a little too long these days. Always getting there, but needing time to find his way to the answer. He’s slower. But that’s fine. Lafayette doesn’t mind. Slow is good. Slow is alive. Slow is the same person, but with more caution.

Maybe they need more caution.

Quietly, John walks past everything. Ascends the stairs to their bedroom.

Lafayette follows behind him. He’s been back to the house exactly once since John arrived at the hospital. For one purpose only.

And John sees it when he gets to their room. He’s frozen in the doorway. Staring at the glow in the dark stars glued to the ceiling. The two night lights plugged into the wall by the side of the bed that hadn’t been there before. The extra lamp on his bedside table

Lafayette reaches out. Wraps an arm around John’s stomach. Pulls him back against his chest. Feels how John’s body arches into his touch. How he submits. Not entirely unusual, especially considering the circumstances, but still different than his usual display. It’s okay. They have time.

Biting John’s neck, relishing in John’s groans, he whispers “Mine,” into John’s ear.

John nods. Tears prickling at his eyes. Still healing. Still in shock. Still processing what the hell had happened these past two weeks.

Lafayette takes him to bed. He doesn’t make John scream. But it’s a near thing.

 

* * *

 

Alex stays the night at least twice a week. He takes John out and about. They watch movies. They curl around each other. Aaron accompanies them occasionally, but he’s still uncomfortable with both Lafayette and Laruens so he chooses his time wisely.

Lafayette lets them go. Lets them have their time together. There are things he wants. But he knows when to wait for them. John’s been shaken by Jefferson’s attack. Alex has too. They cling to each other. Two best friends reeling from tragedy and sorrow. Forever entwined in one another. No matter what.

Lafayette approaches them. He offers what he can. He works it out with Alex. Aaron, he assumes, has also been consulted. John’s cast comes off, and he uses both his hands to run scratching nails up Alex’s body. He lays over Alex. Kisses and bites. Hugs and squeezes. Alex begs John so sweetly. And John presses against Lafayette in open supplication.

It’s not enough.

Not yet.

At night, after Alex has left, John presses his back against Lafayette’s body. Lets Lafayette squeeze his throat. Lets him bite and tear at his skin. Nothing too rough. Not while his skin is still paper thin. When the bruises come a touch too fast. When he still stares at the ceiling like at any moment their stars might twinkle out.

There are words John needs to hear. Words Lafayette soon loves to speak. “Mine.” He growls into John’s ear. _“Tu es à moi.”_ John gasps each time. Presses against him. Bites. Whimpers. Whines. Still too submissive to be quite right. But still just on the edge of perfect.

It’s only a week before finals when he hones in on the exact words John needs. “I will always come for you. I will never let you go. _You’re mine._ ”

John gasps. Back arching. All at once a fighter and a supplicant. Gripping at Lafayette’s body. Pulling him close.

And oh! That clever minx...

Lafayette vows to say it more often.

 

* * *

 

John stands at the window of his bedroom. Looks outside. Watches Lafayette return from his run. It’s been hard to speak. Hard to get the words out. Three days in the dark, convinced that Lafayette put him there, only to be struck by the realization that _Jefferson_ kidnapped him...He flinches from the memory.

Replaces it with the blurry recollection of Lafayette killing Jefferson to get to his side. There’s something in that. Something in that that makes him twitch. Makes him eager. He wishes he could have seen more. Seen the fight in its full. Not its hazy blurry aftermath. Not the neon vision of light and beauty that faded away with pain and agony.

John’s been so tired lately. Unable to stay awake. But when he sleeps, its so quiet. So dark. He jolts awake. Lafayette’s hand in his hair. Careful around the stitches holding his scalp together. Whispering hot in his ear. _Mine. Mine. Mine._

He tries to go back to sleep. But can’t seem to manage. Just sits in the hazy bliss of Lafayette holding him down. Hot pressure and sharp pain grounding him. _I’m safe. I’m not alone. He’s here._

The doctors claim he’ll sleep better soon. That he’s just under a lot of stress. But it won’t last. Still. His teachers tell him to take his finals at home. And he finishes the school year with a stroke of a pen and a few sent emails.

The door opens downstairs. He tenses, even though he saw Lafayette come in the house. Even though he knows that no one else is here. Every window and every door in this house has been rigged with an alarm. Another gift Lafayette relishes in providing. Leaning over John. _Do you like that? Knowing that you’re mine? Knowing no one can take you again? Knowing I won’t let you leave unless_ you _ask me for it?_

His eyes roll back each time. Begging. Pleading. Rejoicing. _Yes. Yes. Yes._

But there are moments. Moments just before Lafayette materializes before him. When the door opens, and he tries to remember if he heard it the first time. Heard it when someone first came in. He still flinches when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Even though it’s Lafayette. Dressed in his running clothes. Smelling like sweat.

He tilts his head at John. Curious. Inviting. John feels the start of something churning under his skin. The start of something he hasn’t felt in weeks. Adrenaline. Good and pure. He takes one step forward. Another. Watches Lafayette’s eyes darken. His expression becoming wicked.

He aims a punch slow and weak towards Lafayette’s face. A flirtation. A kiss with his fist. His arm is caught. He’s turned and twisted. Pressed against the wall. Lafayette’s body grinds down on top of him. _“Mon monstre préféré…_ have you come out to play?”

John looks up at the stars on the ceiling. He lifts his heel and stomps on Lafayette’s foot.

The fight starts anew. Slower than their last true bout, but no less necessary. No less perfect. He punches. Kicks. Lands a few cheap shots. And when it’s over, Lafayette has him on his back. One hand at his throat. His hands tied to the bed. His knees by his ears. He’s being fucked hard and fast, and Lafayette leans down to his lips.

“You’re mine, and I’m never letting you go.”

He comes harder than he’s ever come in his life. Lafayette’s teeth biting into his throat.

 

* * *

 

The parlor is neat and orderly. The machine perfect and precise. John lays on his back. Head up. Eyes fixed on Lafayette’s as he talks to him sweetly. Tells him ridiculous things that are distracting and perfect. Teasing flirtations that are so much more than the standard teasing flirtations.

The needle works sharp and quick. Setting the black down. The outline coming into shape directly over John’s heart. John licks his lips. And Lafayette claims them. Careful not to jostle John’s body.

The brand is different than the one Alex received from Jefferson. That, a crudely drawn initial, had been a way of Jefferson enforcing an ownership that he didn’t deserve. One that Alex had spent the remainder of his year reeling from. This...this is something John wants. Needs.

Lafayette is possessive of his things. He takes good care of them. He keeps them and is obsessive about their well being. The needle stops. “We can do the color another time…?” the artist offers.

“Non,” Lafayette whispers against John’s lips. “Now.”

John tilts his head back. Welcomes the hot burn of the needle as it presses against him. In and out. In and out. Pumping him skin with ink. Filling him up.

When they’re done, when Lafayette’s left his mark permanently emblazed over John’s heart, John leans his head against Lafayette’s chest. He reaches up. Traces the edges of the bandage covering a mark of his own. Just for him. A reminder that this relationship goes both ways. That Lafayette claims him, just as much as he claims Lafayette. The bandage will come off in due time. And when it does, Lafayette will forever remember that he’s John’s.

“I’m not letting go,” he informs Lafayette primly. Digging his nails into his back.

Lafayette grins. Trails his hands to John’s hips, and the bruises he’d left there just the night before. He lifts one hand over John’s heart. Digs his fingers into the tape. “You better not, because I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezes hard. The pain is exquisite. But the mark on his chest? That burns brighter than them all.

It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

And so much more.

They listen to _Stromae_ on the way home.

  
It’s not that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me or prompt me on tumblr
> 
> http://www.falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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